Sixth Sunday after Pentecost
July 20, 2025

Sermon

Amy Pagliarella
Parish Associate

Genesis 18:1–10a
Luke 10:38–42

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“Can you be done now, Mama?” 

I don’t recall exactly when I heard these words, but it was a long time ago, when I was parenting two young children.

I do recall where I was — in the kitchen — busy with my many tasks. Probably doing dishes from one of the constant stream of meals two preschool-age children require. 

While my hands were busy, my mind was elsewhere. I suspect I was writing a lesson plan or sermon for the upcoming Sunday or, in a completely counterproductive move, reliving last week’s difficult committee meeting in my head. 

Did I mention that I multitasked a lot? 

My kids sat right within my line of sight, making coffee in their pretend kitchen — you know, one of the plastic sets children love to play with. 

They sat expectantly, arms outstretched to pass me a pretend coffee cup, with the hope that we would sit and pretend to enjoy coffee together. 

My children didn’t care about dishes or dinner, sermons or Sunday School. They cared about me. And at that moment, they wanted me to join their coffee hour and simply be present. 

They wanted my time. My attention. 

My children wanted me. 

My preschooler asked, “Can you be done now?” 

And this is what I hear Jesus ask: “Can you be done now, Martha?”

You see, Jesus’ visit to Mary and Martha falls in the middle of a whirlwind series of passages. He knows he’s going to die — soon. Luke tells us that Jesus has foretold his own death and trained his followers to continue his work. 

And every day, Jesus has his own work to do. Preaching … teaching … healing … even casting out demons … bringing a little girl back to life. His work is hard. His life is hard. 

When he says, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things,” he isn’t rebuking her. He just wants her to take a break. And maybe he wants one too. 

I imagine that Jesus has been looking forward to this visit all week long. Maybe time spent in Mary and Martha’s house is a kind of respite, away from his “road warrior” lifestyle and the constant demands of his followers. 

And maybe he just wants time with friends, with his “chosen family,” these two sisters whom he’s come to love. 

So when Martha, full of righteous indignation, turns to Jesus for validation, he looks at her — loves her — and gives her permission to simply be. 

He says, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things, but few things are needed — indeed only one. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.”

Now as any parent or teacher can tell you, never compare one sibling to the other. So unfortunately Jesus’ words have created a Mary vs. Martha smackdown: in one corner, there’s Martha — hard at work, hosting a hungry bunch of disciples — and in the other corner, there’s Mary — teacher’s pet, ready to sit at the rabbi’s feet and soak up his wisdom. 

It’s created a false dichotomy: are you a Mary or a Martha? 

And, at times, this interpretation has contributed to the denigration of “women’s work” — the idea that Jesus is looking down his nose at the tasks women are often asked to perform. 

But here’s the thing: Luke never says Martha was busy in the kitchen! Maybe she was making her famous hummus, but it’s just as likely that her many tasks included running the family business, distributing clothing to nearby widows and orphans, or performing one of many other essential tasks of ministry. We don’t know. 

We do know, however, that Jesus validates Mary’s place as his student and that he implies Martha should join her. In Jewish tradition, studying the Torah was called the “good portion,” and students would often learn at the feet of a rabbi. Jesus upsets convention, encouraging Mary and Martha to take on a role ordinarily reserved for men. 

But Martha can’t do it. She’s frustrated. Angry. Self-righteous, even. And desperately seeking validation. And I can’t say I blame her. 

Haven’t we all felt like Martha at one time? Unappreciated. Unseen. 

Maybe in our jobs, maybe at home, where we bear the emotional labor or handle the maintenance that no one notices. 

And so we might get a little hot under the collar when Jesus doesn’t immediately take Martha’s side. Wouldn’t it be so satisfying if Jesus said, “Martha, Martha, sit down. Put your feet up.” 

“Disciples! These dishes aren’t going to wash themselves, are they, fellas! Make yourselves useful! Help Martha distribute clothes to all these widows and orphans so that she can take a breather with me and Mary!” 

But, of course, he didn’t! Because Jesus is and was fully a human of his time and place, so I’m not going to ask him to adhere to modern standards of division of labor. And perhaps more importantly, because this isn’t a story about division of labor. 

It’s a story about relationships, about friendship, love, and the people who offer us safe landing. 

And it’s a reminder that Jesus doesn’t love us because of what we do, how much we produce, or even how well we serve him. Jesus loves us because of who we are. 

But as I read this today, I feel sorry for Jesus. He tells Martha that just one thing is needed. I hear him saying, “Martha, Martha, just be. Be with me. I’m running out of time, and the time I have left, I’d like to spend with you.” 

So perhaps this is what Luke’s story means for us today. Can we hear Jesus say to us, “Friend, you are worried and distracted by so many things. Can you be done? Can you just come sit with me a while? Because the time I have, I’d like to spend with you.” 

And can we answer Yes?

And then, can we wonder how?

What does it look like to spend time with Jesus? For some of us it looks like Mary. We learn, pray, meditate, or enjoy quiet and silent time. 

For others, it looks like Martha (minus the worries). Because Martha’s words “Mary has left me with all the work” can also be translated “Mary has left me with all the service.” 

Service is an essential part of who we are — as a church and as individuals — but working hard in the name of Jesus doesn’t always draw us closer to him — or to each other. Not when we’re worried or resentful. 

My colleague Nanette Sawyer tells a story in her book, Hospitality: The Sacred Art, in which, week after week, she found herself preparing a weekly meal for her spiritual community — all by herself. She was exhausted and drained, “even starting to feel resentful that no one was helping.” 

Nanette writes, “What was intended to be connective and life-giving had become for me isolating and a burden.” In the midst of busy-ness, Nanette decided to stop rushing about and simply become aware of how she felt. 

Once she realized that she was worried and distracted by her service, Nanette decided to be more generous toward herself. She chose to make the work fun! — not by changing the work, but by changing her attitude. Then she decided to pour her love for the community into the meal, creating the most nourishing and gorgeous feast possible. This new perspective allowed her to be more generous toward others — and to invite them to share the work in the future. 

Like Nanette, when we find joy in service, it becomes the conduit to building and deepening relationships. Like Abraham, who offered hospitality to strangers and found himself entertaining God, may we treat everyone we encounter as though they are Jesus. 

When our Deacons serve Communion, when our Sunday Night Supper volunteers serve our guests, it is as though they are serving Jesus. 

And when this kind of service leads to resentment — when we’re tired and cranky like Martha — may we hear Jesus say, “Friend, I choose to be with you — not because you are productive, but because you are you.” 

And may we give ourselves permission to be done — for now — so that we might sit with those around us as though we are seated at Jesus’ feet.

The children I pretended to drink coffee with are teenagers now. One leaves for college next month.

All these years later, I don’t recall the Sunday School lesson I was writing in my head.

But I do remember sitting on that couch, drinking — glug glug glug — cup after cup of pretend coffee, seeing Jesus in the face of a couple of kiddos who just wanted to play with mom. 

Sometimes we have no choice but to produce — to work, to earn a living, to put a roof over our head and food on the table. 

And sometimes our time is not productive. We may not create or make anything, except friendships and memories. 

Either way, we are enough.

We are enough — more than enough — for Jesus. 

Because Jesus tells us,

You aren’t what you produce. 
You are whom you love. 
You are whom you befriend. 
You are mine. 

And he simply wants to spend time with us, just as we are. 

Perhaps you can hear in Jesus’ words this invitation: 

Be still and know that I am God. 
Be still and know. 
Be still. 
Be.

To God be the glory. Amen. 

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Sermon © Fourth Presbyterian Church